


Siren Song

by Kikimay



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: A fanfic sponsored by Satan himself, Andrés' peculiar psyche, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dysfunctional Relationships, Fever Dreams, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Missing Scene, References to Canon, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24287221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kikimay/pseuds/Kikimay
Summary: “Are you relieved now?”“That he accepted our plan? That he finally understood the greatness of it?”“That you stabbed that man,” Martín said.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Professor | Sergio Marquina, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 13
Kudos: 110





	Siren Song

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help myself, I tried to make sense of the "stabbing with a fork" scene we saw in two episodes of Season 4. Because I have way too many questions and thoughts. 
> 
> Not Betaed, I hope I didn't make gross mistakes.
> 
> Enjoy and let me know what you think!

A wheeze was coming from the privy next door, like the rattle of dying animal.  
  
Andrés was too busy washing his hands to pay attention to it. There was blood on his fingertips, inside his nails, in the folds on his knuckles; lumpy, reddish blood mixed with something that could have been urine and traces of semen. Andrés applied the soap two times and scrubbed his skin energetically to erase tactile feeling and smell.   
  
_“P-plea –_ “ squeaked the dying animal, his voice so small, so meaningless and forgettable.  
  
Andrés dried his hands with a soft towel.

*  
  
Sergio was waiting in the hallway, his face a puzzle of comical concern.  
  
“You’ve been away for too long,” he started, voice strained with anxiety. “Martín and I were thinking … I was worried …”  
  
“But I’m here now, am I?” Andrés replied with a smile. “Let’s get going.”  
  
*  
  
“You attacked that man … why would you do that for? What if somebody entered the bathroom and saw the aggression? What would you have done then? We’re planning the bigger heist in the history of this country … f-for something never tried before, and you could have being arrested for a pointless aggression, for an unnecessary act of violence!”  
  
Andrés clenched his jaw.  
  
“He mocked me. That crude elephant dared to mock me.”  
  
Sergio stopped on his tracks, in the darkness of the corridor.   
  
“Are you serious?”  
  
His brother stared to him.  
  
“Of course I am! I won’t tolerate ridicule from unsightly strangers. I am a man of principles, that you should know.”  
  
Sergio opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.  
  
“This is the most specious thing you’ve said in a while.”  
  
“ _Hermano_ …”  
  
It was time for Martín to step forward; he was walking a few steps behind the brothers like a quiet shadow.  
  
“I was watching the entries and exits, no one would have entered the bathroom while Andrés was in there,” he said. “I wouldn’t have allowed it.”  
  
Andrés gave him a bright smile, like the gift from a sun god.  
  
“See?” he laughed triumphantly. “You worry too much, _hermanito!_ My dearest friend Martín will always have my back.”  
  
Sergio looked at him, then at Martín. Finally he sighed, defeated.  
  
“It’s too late for this conversation anyway,” he said, heading for his bedroom. “We’ll wake up tomorrow at a reasonable hour to discuss melting techniques.”  
  
“I can’t wait,” Andrés replied.   
  
His brother glared at him and Martín couldn’t help but chuckle.   
  
“Goodnight, Sergio.”  
  
“Goodnight.”  
  
“Do sleep well, _hermanito_ ,” Andrés added in a melliflous tone.   
  
Martín openly laughed this time and Sergio slammed the door.  
  
Still grinning, Andrés pressed his back against the shadowy wall and turned his head towards his friend.  
  
“He’s adorable when he gets angry, isn’t he? He was always like this, even when we were children. It reminds me of innocence …”  
  
Martín sighed, moving closer.  
  
“Are you relieved now?”  
  
“That he accepted our plan? That he finally understood the greatness of it?”  
  
“That you stabbed that man,” Martín said.  
  
He had lied to Sergio when they were in the car, implying the he saw the guy coming out the bathroom a bit battered but in one piece. He had learned that his bestfriend’s brother wasn’t anything like them: he cared about other people and despised violence, for some reasons. Martín only wanted him to stay quiet, to trust him. _(To please Andrés)_  
  
“He laughed at me,” Andrés moaned, rubbing his head against the wall. “Do I have to justify my actions to you too?”  
  
“Never, Andrés.”  
  
“Then why are you asking?”  
  
 _Because he didn’t laugh at you_ , Martín wanted to say, _he laughed at_ _us._  
  
He considered himself lucky to be able to touch his bestfriend – to feel him close and fix his spotless suits, the buttons of his shirts as if it was his job, as if he was allowed to care for Andrés and show him the truth of his feelings through the small, insignificant gestures of everyday life. He knew how sometimes people saw them as couple, he knew from their glares and felt the shame and sorrow _(the deep, unbridled, secret joy)_ of having Andrés mistaken for his lover.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he exhaled.  
  
“Why?” Andrés asked, eyes turning ice-cold. “It’s not your fault if people are uneducated and vile.”  
  
“Of course not,” Martín sighed, trying for a conciliatory smile.   
  
“Then can we stop talking about the orangutan? I’m getting bored by this entire discussion!”  
  
“Sure. It’s late anyway, we should really go to bed.”  
  
Andrés looked at if he was about to say something, then stilled. Smiled. With a finger he traced the outline of his friend’s arm making him shiver.   
  
“Getting ready for tomorrow questioning,” he whispered.  
  
“Something like that,” Martìn chuckled and turned to his bathroom.  
  
“I miss the Italian monastery,” Andrés said too quickly. “Our little chapel full of beauty, only for us …” _The place where we slept together._ “I want to go back.”  
  
“I’m sure we can arrange a fly …”  
  
“We should.”  
  
Martín sighed.  
  
“Would you ever … would you laugh at me, if I weren’t your friend?”  
  
Andrés’ eyes shone in the darkness. In ten years Martín rarely asked such questions, always mindful of his bestfriend’s boundaries, never daring to cross them. There were occasions though: when his heart felt irredeemably broken by yearning and loneliness; when he was too young – and still uneducated to Andrés’ needs – and cried for the wounds inflicted by his father’s thrashings.   
  
Andrés had welcomed him then; healing his wounds, inflicting others, deeper and more subtle that still tasted like comfort.  
  
“No,” he answered then.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Martín, I … it’s prejudice and triviality, do you think of me in such way?”  
  
“Never,” his friend whispered in a faithful prayer. “You’re far too brilliant for that,” he added, before he could have stopped himself.  
  
Andrés smiled again as bright as the sun, Martín’s heart ached in his chest.  
  
“We’re going back to Italy! We’re going to have so much fun, dearest friend! Let’s go to sleep now.”  
  
*  
  
It wasn’t a lie, not truly.  
  
Andrés would have never believed in such crude hatred for someone as clever, as intellectually challenging and lovely as Martín. He granted him his friendship after all.  
  
But there were times … when Martín looked at men far longer than necessary, when he curled his lips in vicious smiles and let his eyes lighten with greedy lust.  
  
One time, in Buenos Aires, Martín had met a boy. A young, gangly boy who would have been so irrelevant to the world, if only Martín Berrote wouldn’t have talked to him and lead him on a back alley and kneeled in front of him, opening his jeans to service him like a proper slut.  
  
Andrés had watched them, watched the boy forcing Martín to stand up and turn to the wall, forcing him to bend and grunt like an animal. His friend Martín, _his_ Martín.   
  
Those were the days when Andrés had met his second wife, fucked her in the same lurid alley, and still a woman’s taste did erase the image of his grunting bestfriend. Such strangeness.  
  
There was something distasteful about that episode. Surely it wasn’t in the act itself, although he didn’t bear the sight of Martín for the next few days _(How could he diminish himself like that for a boy?)_ And then, when it was time to assault a credit institution, the entire affair was overshadowed by their plans and Andrés rediscovered his clever, exceptional friend.  
  
Still.  
  
 _How could he give himself to another?_  
  
*  
  
There was no point in musing over impossible things: Andrés learned this valuable lesson very soon in life. And what more relieving that finding himself in between a woman’s honeyed legs? The only place where he could forget himself.  
  
He smiled at his sweet wife and peppered kisses on her thights and stomach. He grinned when she giggled and tried to escape his grip, pushed her on the mattress, forcelly licking a trail of blonde hair on the sunkissed skin, the muscular chest …  
  
 _His sweet wife,_  
  
 _Martín._  
  
Andrés discovered his moaning bestfriend under him.  
  
“Martín,” he gasped, holding on his arms.   
  
“Andrés,” the other man called, touching his face. He spread his legs for him, opened himself so beautifully _only for him_. “Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid …” he called and called.  
  
And Andrés wanted nothing more than sink inside that compliant, tender body.  
  
  
Martín, his soulmate  
  
  
Martín, the love of his life  
  
  


  
…  
  
Andrés woke up with sheets wrapped around his aching limbs. The sweetness of the dream already gone, a bad aftertaste in his mouth. He let a hand slide inside his boxer to relieve himself, but found out that his arm was unresponsive and his fingers were spasming.


End file.
